Who I am’s child’s play,
a cry in a kindergarten;
though I pun on Latin,
my Yorkshire kin’s laik,

a whole lexical rainbow
unweaving in no code,
no Mason’s Mahabone
nor Horseman’s Word —

but I’m caltrops at night
to the bare feet of adults
inspiring their language
to such colors as I am,

Kulla, Mondrian plastic
pixelating Mies blocks;
the Ephesian Artemis
in each cubist bust;

the Song of Amergin
by a Turing machine:
name me or you’ll be
thicker than any brick.